Pigheaded

There is a frozen pig head in my refrigerator. 

In an effort to feed my family better and kinder meats, I split a hog with one of my friends whose brother is a farmer. He raises pigs the old fashioned way -- in the dirt and grass. They live in pens and do piggy things as opposed to being raised in sterile factories, where the workers must dress like lab personnel instead of farmers.

I'd done this once before and when my meat arrived in little packets of chops and roasts, I'd inquired about the pork cheeks, liver, blood, and pigs feet. I thought that if we were buying a whole hog, those things would be included as well. My friend was baffled that I would even consider asking for those parts of the pig. She said that her brother usually gives those to the farmhands. I was disappointed but knew the opportunity would probably present itself again.

This year I was prepared. I asked if her brother could collect the liver, the blood, the pig's face, and the feet. In fairness, he tried. The guy who slaughters the pigs for him put all the pig's internal organs into a huge bucket. My friend's brother looked at the bloody mess and couldn't conceive fishing around for the liver. At the suggestion that he just freeze the whole mess and send it to me that way, I was grateful he decided it wasn't worth the bother. He did his best to give me the pigs feet but they were covered in mud and stuff that surely wasn't mud. Despite scrubbing them in hot water repeatedly, he didn't feel like it was sanitary to send me those. But the head -- the head he could do. They simply lopped that off and froze it whole.

I'd asked for the face! The face! Not the skull. Those tender cheeks and the thought that I could try my hand at sisig was very exciting to me. But a whole head?!?

In theory a pig's head is not a terrible thing to have to cook. There is a long tradition of cooking pig heads in my family. My father would boil the heads before he would roast them. We'd all fight for the ears and the crackling skin. The cheeks were truly delights. There was a vinegary sweet liver sauce that went with the pig head and the next day we'd have a stew called paksiw. At my daughter's baptismal party, we ordered a suckling pig. My older brother took home the pig head as I simply could not bear to deal with the skull.

And now there is a pig's head in my freezer.

So I texted my brother the chef. "I have a frozen pig head. How do I cook it? It's the whole head, not just the face."

He was so excited, he called me right back. Told me that I could boil it then roast it like Dad did. Said that if it were him, he'd probably just roast it whole so it would be easier. But then he had to say the terrible thing. He said, "Oh, if you can, save me some brains. It's better than butter. It's rich and creamy. Some hot brains on toast is the best thing. So good!" I had him on speaker phone. My daughters and husband were in the car when David was waxing poetic on pig brains. I think every last one of us lost all the coloring in our cheeks and a collective shudder rocked the car.

Then I texted my friend Greg who is also a chef. This conversation happened after my phone call with my brother. By this point, I had googled cooking a whole head and all the pictures had me off. I was ready to simply conduct a funeral for the pig's head and have done.

Me: I have a pig head in my freezer. Your thoughts? My brother wants me to debone it. I requested the face, especially the cheeks of the hog. I got the whole head. I wanted to make sisig.
Him: Debone... Save me the brain or a piece... Stock for split pea...
Me: How the heck can I get to the brain??? And also, how do I do this while avoiding PTSD?
Him:  Use a sanitary saw.
Me: I have sanitary napkins. I do not have a sanitary saw.
Him: Do you have the sweet breads too?
Me:  I did not get the offal. You can have all the brains if you hold my hand through this process. And by hold my hand, I mean come over here and help me through it. Otherwise, I'm bringing the head to my brother's house and he can deal with it. I'm seriously out of my comfort zone. Haven't you ever wanted to make your own pancetta?
Him:  Ideally you need a bandsaw.
Me: We have a bandsaw but Rob says no. This experience has the potential of putting me off pork for a bit. 

So for now, there is a head in my freezer. It is thankfully wrapped in a white plastic bag that I cannot see through. But it sits there. Oh yes, like Poe's telltale heart, it sits there daring me to defrost it and get out the brains for the chefs in my life.